


No Matter the Cost

by TheIcyQueen



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Character Study, Gen, Pre-Kingdom Hearts Chain of Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 00:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17314694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIcyQueen/pseuds/TheIcyQueen
Summary: If there's one thing Zexion knows how to do, it's protect himself. Illusions can be used for so much more than fighting--and not all battles take place in the field. He always gets what he wants.





	No Matter the Cost

A rumor spreads that he is weak.   
  
It is a virus that jumps from person to person in the halls, in back rooms, through hushed whispers and pointed looks during meetings. It's perpetuated easily enough, given his size and pallor, the careful way in which he selects his words and his battles, but it strikes a chord all the same. One doesn't have to be a genius to understand the tactic at hand--but it certainly helps.   
  
Power is all in perception, after all.  
  
No one quite knows where it began or who uttered the first cruel jab, but there are strong hunches. Few had taken to the idea of the boy being groomed to be something more than he was--something important.  
  
And for a long while, he takes the abuse in stride. It's nothing he is unused to, given his cold disposition and turbulent upbringing, and the lumbering oafs in black coats might as well be schoolyard bullies sneeringly lurking on the jungle gym (and it stands to be said that the two newest actually  _were_ ). He can take their words, their names and whispers, everything short of stones and sticks, but only for so long.   
  
Nothing in particular marks that final straw, but when enough is enough that's all there is to say. Something frighteningly akin to rage balls heavily in his chest, throbbing hollowly where his heart (debatably) used to reside. The lights in his room begin to flicker dangerously, shadows becoming somehow darker, deeper in the corners and under the springboard, but he isn't afraid. There's no monster hiding under the bed, waiting to grab at his ankles.  
  
The only monster to speak of is sitting atop the bed, face lost in the dark, save for the chilly blue glints of his eyes.   
  
He had never been good at handling anger (or any other emotion, to be fair), bottling it up and letting it fester into something venomous and caustic before unleashing it upon whatever poor soul tread too closely. The only difference between then and now is he no longer can claim a heart, guilt, a conscience. All bets could officially be called off.   
  
His control of his illusions began slowly--the alteration of tiny details, not nearly enough to cause alarm, but enough to prickle the fine hair on the backs of necks and arms--but as with most other things in life, he found he had quite the steep learning curve. After becoming a Nobody, the process had only been expedited (creating foes that weren't there, enveloping entire beings in shadow, prompting hallucinations and delusions the likes of which no medical journal could ever hope to chronicle), but this is new. The face in the mirror is not his at all.  
  
But to be fair, none of them are.  
  
He approaches Xaldin first, for myriad reasons (the foremost of which being a lingering suspicion that he is the root cause of the mockery). There is no worry that the illusion hasn't taken--the Lancer is looking much too far above his head as he speaks, and it is obvious at once that those vengeful, violet eyes are seeing exactly what Zexion wants him to.   
  
From there, it is nothing more than simple psychology. Pinpointing insecurities has always been a strange sixth sense of his, and he figures he's long due to put it to use.  
  
Of course you're useless, he tells the Lancer, why would anyone ally themselves with someone so rash and impetuous? You jumped at the chance to do whatever Xehanort ordered: abandon your post, your duties, your friends. Is it really any wonder that you're so alone now? You deserve it, the loneliness and the doubts. You can stew in it, think about what you've done like a child who has acted out of line. You can never be forgiven, you've been replaced, you are dead to me.   
  
He watches the other's face contort, slow-boiling rage becoming something more malignant, and he smirks as he dodges an expected swing from a meaty fist. For a being without emotion, Xaldin is still so reactionary. How predictably dull.  
  
There is only the slightest moment of doubt as the one-time Guard disappears to another part of the castle, dark tendrils of shadow filling the space he had only just occupied. Some flicker of a voice in the very back of his head warns him to rethink his plan, stop and draw up a new schematic. Because while driving the wedge further will benefit him, Xaldin is not the only one who will suffer.   
  
In the end, he decides his needs outweigh the others'. His reputation is at stake, his good name. Childhood sentimentality holds no sway in a war zone.   
  
Lexaeus's features are painted with the sort of dislike Zexion knows he'll never see when wearing his own face. It makes the task easier. And while he fancies himself an actor of the highest caliber, he realizes quickly that it's much simpler to put the right personality behind Xaldin's face than Lexaeus's. For how vehemently he dislikes the Lancer, they're just a touch too similar for comfort.  
  
You've changed, he sneers to the Hero, what does it say about you that you'd rather skulk around in the dark recesses with the laughing stocks of the Organization than the people you called your friends? You've gone soft, weak, pathetic. No wonder you were given such a low rank, below even Vexen and Xigbar, clearly you're nothing more than a pawn, wrapped around the little finger of a child. You're no valiant knight, you're a lowly lemming, doing whatever it is that you're told. How sad.  
  
There's no attempt at violence on Lexaeus's part (also terribly predictable), and he ignores the strange twinge that runs through his chest as he watches the Hero retreat. He has no time to dwell on whatever that strange sinking feeling is, though, as he has to act fast, now.  
  
The shadows have always been his friends, and now when he sinks into one, he finds himself comfortably in the hall designated for the lower three founders. In less than a blink, he's thrown himself across a settee, lexicon out and open, words swimming and swirling until they rest on what appears to be a fable from his youth. Vexen looks up from what he's doing only momentarily, casting the boy a wary expression before Lexaeus storms through the main door and Zexion looks up.  
  
"You certainly look upset," he comments coolly, turning a yellowed page, "Is there perhaps anything we could do to help?"  
  
But his question is punctuated by the door to the Hero's chambers slamming shut, and he lowers his eyes to his tome once more, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.  
  
"Just what have you done this time?" Vexen asks him, returning to his work as well.  
  
"Nothing that wouldn't have happened on its own," Zexion reassures him, crossing one leg over the other to better position himself on the cushions. "I simply accelerated the process."  
  
"Nothing to tarnish the trust of your comrades, I hope," the Academic sighs, ever perceptive, ever admonishing.   
  
With an airy breath, Zexion reminds him that he will not accept a repeat performance of what happened in Radiant Garden. Nothing was more important than knowing where alliances lie.  
  
A corner of Vexen's mouth tucks in as he inquires as to whether or not he should expect a similar exercise to ensure his loyalties. He's shot down immediately--Zexion knows exactly where the Academic's allegiance is. Who else would have him, after all?  
  
After that, the pieces begin to line themselves up neatly. It's surprising how quickly a paltry rumor can be quashed (cracking knuckles and blunt weapons often seem to have that effect). The whispers stop, for the most part, and his respect ascends once more.   
  
He has earned his title of Schemer.

  
The cost does not matter.

**Author's Note:**

> Reupload from 8/16/13.


End file.
